At that time, I cannot say how suddenly the heart of all Bengal was transformed. It was as if, after the ashes of sixty thousand sons of Sagar, the waters of the Bhagirathi touched them for a moment. For ages upon ages, the ashes had lain buried deep—ashes that would not ignite in any fire, that would not bind together with any moisture—suddenly, those ashes found voice and declared, “Here I am!”

I have read in books that some sculptor-god of Greece, by his boon, infused life into his own creation, but in that transformation from form to life there is a gradual evolution, a striving. But in our land, where was the unity of form amidst the heaps of funeral ash? If it had been something hard and solid, like stone, I could have understood—even Ahalya, turned to stone, became human once more. But this was all scattered, slipping through the Creator’s fingers, drifting away on the wind, lying in heaps, never becoming one. Yet, suddenly, one day, that very thing came near the courtyard of our home and thundered like a cloud, proclaiming, “Ayam aham bhoh!”—“Behold, it is I!”

That is why, on that day, it seemed to us that all this was miraculous. This present moment, like a jewel fallen straight from the crown of some nectar-intoxicated god, had dropped right into our hands; there was no natural continuity between our past and this present. This day was like a medicine we had not sought, had not bought, had not received from any physician, but had won in a dream.

Therefore, it seemed that all our sorrows and all our sufferings would be healed by some incantation. The boundaries between possible and impossible vanished altogether. Again and again, it felt as though, “Now it is done, it is done!”

That day, it seemed to us that history had no vehicle; it came gliding on its own, like the Pushpak chariot—at least, its charioteer required no wages; there was no worry for its fodder, only that, from time to time, its cup of wine must be refilled—and then, suddenly, one would attain heaven in the flesh.

It is not that my husband was unshaken. But, amid all the excitement, a certain melancholy seemed to strike him. Even as he looked at what was before him, he seemed to see something beyond it. I remember, in a debate with Sandip one day, he said, “Fortune—”

Suddenly she comes and calls out at our door, only to show us that we do not have the strength to receive her; we have made no arrangements to invite her in and seat her within our home.”

Sandip said, “Look, Nikhil, you do not honor the goddess, and that is why you speak such atheistic words. We have seen with our own eyes that the goddess of awakening has come to grant us her boon, and yet you refuse to believe it?”

My husband replied, “I do honor the goddess, and that is